


Greater Love Than This

by werewolfsquad



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bury Me Not zine, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, or at least the mention of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26552698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolfsquad/pseuds/werewolfsquad
Summary: Hiding out after a job and trying to patch himself up, Lenny learns a little more about Arthur Morgan. Years earlier, it's Hosea's turn on watch after Arthur takes his first bullet.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Leonard "Lenny" Summers, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 72





	1. Greater Love

**Author's Note:**

> Finally getting around to posting these pieces I wrote for the Bury Me Not zine. Not sure if this is how they ended up being in the final print of the zine, but I always sort of thought of these pieces as linked, which is why I'm putting them up as two chapters of the same fic. I'm really grateful that I got to work with such amazing people on this project, and hopefully these pieces hold up, despite the challenge I found it to work within a more constrained word count what with my habit of biting off more than I can chew regarding fic length. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

If he never saw dynamite again, Lenny decided, it would be just fine by him.

“Shit,” he muttered as the bandana he was trying to wrap around one of the deeper splits in the skin of his arm slipped for a third time. And then, “Shut it, Arthur,” as a chuckle drifted across the hay-strewn floor of the barn.

Where the others were, Lenny had no idea. As soon as the law had shown up, all he’d been focused on was getting on Maggie and getting out, and he hadn’t even realized Arthur was behind him until a half mile of hard riding had passed. By the time they found an unused barn to hole up in, the blood had dried on his skin and he was starting to hurt.

His snapped words hadn’t seemed to deter Arthur, because there was a scuffling noise, and, though Lenny refused to look up at the man, Arthur’s voice was much closer when he said, “Need some help with that?”

“No,” Lenny snapped back at him.

He hadn’t been close enough to the blast for any serious injury, but he’d been clipped by debris, throwing welts across his exposed skin. He’d be picking wood splinters out of his hair for weeks, but it was mild, all things told. He could handle it himself.

But the bandana slipped _again_ , and Lenny huffed a sigh, and when he glanced up, Arthur was watching him with that look in his eyes.

“Alright, _fine_ ,” he muttered, and let Arthur take the bandana.

Two months in the gang, and Lenny still couldn’t get a grasp on Arthur Morgan. A violent looking son-of-a-bitch, the type Lenny would normally go out of his way to avoid, and yet he’d never heard a racist word out of the man’s mouth nor an unkind sentiment toward the women in camp. Furthermore, Arthur’s hands were gentle when he took Lenny’s arm, asked, “Ain’t no one ever taught you to patch yerself up?”

“Ain’t no one ever expected I’d be shot at.”

“Y’wanted to be an outlaw, kid. Ain’t all stickin’ it t’rich folks. Everyone takes a bullet eventually.”

Lenny snorted. “Sure, Arthur, because that really makes me feel better.”

“S’the truth, ain’t it? ‘cept I reckon you oughta be worried ‘bout these scratches. I heard that kinda thing kills a man.”

Lenny snorted. “And I ain’t even been shot or nothin’.”

Later, Lenny would notice the dark stain on Arthur’s shirt, the stiff way he held his body. He’d see Arthur stumble as he slipped off Boadicea’s back, try his best to cover a limp as he made his way to his tent, collapse on his coat.

Now, though, Arthur just clapped Lenny on the back before settling back against the wood of the barn wall. And the warmth was clear in his voice when he said, “Nah, kid, you’re gonna live forever.”


	2. Recurrence

There was a moment when Hosea knew it.

It was nothing special. Hosea in a chair at the boy’s bedside, the book in his lap a poor cover for watching the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest. Arthur curled on his side, bandages an off-white that stood stark against his skin.

It was Arthur’s first bullet, and the boy had been convinced he was dying. No wonder, not when a year earlier, Dutch had nearly bled out from a bullet through the shoulder, and only pure luck had kept him from infection. Now, caught by a stray shot in an unexpected skirmish, Arthur had been trying his best not to show his fear.

It hadn’t more than clipped him, of course, but the way the blood had spread deep and red across his shirt, it knocked the breath out of all of them. A scrambled retreat back to the cabin they’d been occupying, fussing from Susan and Bessie, and now Arthur was laid up in bed.

 _Hosea’s_ bed, in fact, which Bessie had given up on both their behalf, before she and Susan had whisked Dutch away to distract from his overbearing hovering, leaving Hosea to watch the boy. It was about what Hosea expected from Dutch. Overfull and overdramatic, full of promises that he wouldn’t ever keep. Dutch loved the boy like a son, and wanted everyone around him to know how deep that love ran.

Around the third time Hosea tried to read over the same page, there was a soft exhale, a shifting sound over the bedsheets, the source clear enough when Hosea peered over the top of his book to meet Arthur’s open eyes.

A beat, and then Hosea found himself asking, “How y’feelin’?”

All he got back was a grumble, the boy squinting disagreeably through long eyelashes up at him. And Hosea was ready to take it at that, go back to reading as Arthur inevitably fell back asleep. He’d already turned his eyes away from the boy when the sleep-muddled slur of words came, “What s’it?”

When Hosea just blinked over at him, brows furrowed, Arthur clarified, “Th’ book.”

“ _The Law and the Lady_ ,” Hosea said, and Arthur’s eyebrows lowered in a question. “By Wilkie Collins. Wrote _The Moonstone._ ”

Arthur’s nose scrunched and he dropped his head, not catching the smile that Hosea felt spreading involuntarily over his face. Arthur’d already made his feelings on Wilkie Collins clear enough when he was learning to read, and it seemed those feelings maintained.

Hosea hadn’t ever wanted kids. Between his love for Bessie, there hadn’t ever seemed to be room for a child, and especially not leading the sort of life they led. No room with Dutch, the beacon the man was, and how content he was to lead anyone who would follow.

That was before Arthur. Before watching the boy learn to read, to write, learn to shoot a gun, to draw. Before watching the boy grow and laugh and smile and cry.

Seventeen, by their best estimate, too old to be read to. But too young, Hosea thought, to be worrying about being shot. So, Hosea leaned back in his chair, cleared his throat. When he started to read out loud, despite Arthur’s previous grumbling, the boy exhaled softly and turned his head into the pillow.

Yes, that was when Hosea knew for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title comes from the longer quote, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." You can find me on tumblr at [werewolfsquadron](http://werewolfsquadron.tumblr.com). If you enjoyed, I'd love to hear from you.


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